5 Times John Watson Swore To God This Was The Last
by Codalion
Summary: Breaking up with Sherlock Holmes is a damnably difficult business. The Adventures of John Watson, his excellent intentions and his abysmal willpower.
1. Chapter 1: The Caribbean Shrub

**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, rest his superstitious old heart. Film portrayals which inspired this fic belong to Guy Ritchie, as do any references to the film's storyline. Performances belong to Jude Law and Robert Downey Jr.

**A/N**: This takes place in movieverse, prior to the events of the movie, but I've tried to integrate it a bit with the details and events of Doyle's canon.

--

**I. The Caribbean Shrub**

He never meant to do this. He never _means _to do what he does with Holmes, which is the most delicate way Watson can think to put it. But, come to think of it, John Watson must admit that euphemism is an accurate summation of his relationship with Sherlock Holmes altogether: he never means to go chasing off on some wild goose hunt with Holmes who won't tell him the first damned thing of what's going on if it costs them their lives. He never means to relapse straight back down into gambling because Holmes likes it when a crowd likes him (a novel and unusual feeling for Sherlock Holmes, the effect is usually quite the opposite). And he never means to wind up playing personal physician to Holmes when he's gotten himself into trouble, which is far too often.

So when he does this latest thing he will regret, he doesn't mean to do that, either. But with a mistake of such monumental proportions, Watson suspects it doesn't much matter.

When he does it, Holmes is drunk to near madness, no, drugged to near oblivion. In pursuit of a case, he is examining some sort of drug to see if it works. It does. He will not discover this until tomorrow. For now, he is busy rediscovering the world through what appears to be a brilliant new lens.

"Watson," he slurs. "Watson, do you know I have powers of deduction."

To him, anyway.

He is slung over the settee next to Watson, legs uncomfortably slung over Watson's and head lolled back as Watson tries in vain to check his heartrate and temperature. "They're not powers," says Watson, pressing his hand to Holmes's forehead again, "they're abilities. You disbelieve in powers, ones that be or otherwise -- I really shouldn't have to tell you that. Was Gladstone unavailable?"

"Gladstone," Holmes gives Watson a very deceiving beatific smile and cranes his neck to look at him, a mere few inches away, "has colic today."

"Oh, a victory, I see. Canine colic thoroughly averted."

"Quite," mumbles Holmes, and leans back on the settee. But a few moments later he changes his mind about the settee and sits bolt upright in one motion. He is still half on and half off Watson, a fact which Watson is only tolerating because he is so drugged; and really, Holmes has brought this entirely upon himself, so he really oughtn't. But for the moment he does and he's uncomfortably aware when Holmes shifts his legs and crosses one over another, and is even more uncomfortably aware when he sits up fully and rests most of his weight on his lap. He is incredibly uncomfortably aware of Holmes's hand as it brushes his hand, brushes his trouser leg, brushes his hair as Holmes smooths a few stray locks of Watson's with an expression that suggests he has eaten from the Tree of Knowledge and seen the ghosts of Christmases past, present, future, pluperfect, and so forth. In fact, Watson is so busy being uncomfortably aware that he does not at first notice that Holmes has closed the gap between them, put his hand in Watson's hair and pressed their lips together.

Holmes tastes like pipe-smoke and brandy. For a moment Watson wonders, paralyzed, if this too is some sort of experiment. But Holmes pulls back momentarily and stares at him, hazy and determined. "It did not take powers of deduction," he says, dead serious, "to deduce that you had sexual desire for me. Would you like me to explain the process."

"_Holmes_," is the only thing Watson can really think to say at the moment, "I do not have the _slightest _idea what has gotten _into _you, but consider me sufficiently impressed with your poison. Now we are putting you to bed."

"Is that impatience I hear?"

"_**Holmes**_!"

Holmes kisses him again. Watson is expecting it this time, and pushes him away the instant after he does. This is horrible. This is embarrassing. By all rights Watson ought to shove him entirely off his lap and onto the floor, report the results to him and ban him (ha) from ever experimenting with poisons like this on anything but Gladstone, though God only knows what effect this would have on Gladstone. Holmes tastes like tobacco. Holmes tastes like salt. "Holmes, I am sending you to _bed_," says Watson with alarm.

"Item one, you're complacent that I view women with a general disinterest -- which could just be general disinterest in my own personal life," Holmes gestured, "yet you loathe it whenever it seems like I might not."

"Holmes." Watson puts his hands on Holmes's shoulders, gingerly, like shoving him is some kind of difficult and nigh-insurmountable task that requires preparation.

"Item two --" Holmes slides his hands up Watson's arms in response. Before Watson pays attention to what he is doing there is a short tug and his cravat has been liberated from its bondage in his waistcoat. "You enjoy watching me box. This is decidedly peculiar, given that you normally loathe the idea of me engaging in any hazardous activity and would rather pull your own teeth out than witness it without being able to intervene. A boxing match, one would think, would be the epitome of all of these factors. So we must imagine a third--"

"Holmes, was that my _cravat_?"

"Am I really needed to answer that question?"

"Holmes, get off me." Watson is staring.

Holmes unfolds himself a bit, and then folds himself again, around Watson. He is not exactly sluggish, Watson decides: it's not that sort of drug. If he's being so it's for effect. Watson has determined that "effect" is the heavenliest purpose in Sherlock Holmes' reckoning, never mind "knowledge" and "justice." Holmes might disagree, but he is fooling himself. The effect should not be having a, well, effect on him anyway, Watson reasons: they _have _been this close before. Not in such relaxed circumstances, of course, if he can even call these that. They've wrestled, and not for enjoyment, either. Watson has felt Sherlock Holmes' hips parallel to his and his knees wide open around his legs before. Watson cannot, err, say that the sensation was precisely identical.

"Item three." Holmes's eyes are unfocused -- the drug is speaking, Watson knows. It is speaking fairly articulately and with a surprising amount of motor control, but it is speaking. _Tincture of _Turnera diffusa, he hears Holmes say, five hours ago; _devastating to inhibitions, very potent. Particularly if you want your man to commit a crime, which I suppose _our _man must have. I wonder what dose would drive a man to murder?_

_You're not testing that yourself_, had said Watson with severity.

_He would have to be very displeased to begin with_, mused Holmes.

_**Holmes**_.

_I wouldn't dream of testing it without you_, Holmes assured him.

"Item three," Holmes says again, closing the gap between them again just to hover a fraction of a sliver away from Watson's face, "against all odds, contrary to all common sense and all practical considerations, after many a perilous endeavor sprung on you without the slightest warning and many a client of yours driven away by my habits or my temperament, despite a corpulent dog and the recurrent presence of bees --"

Holmes is a bloody liar.

"-- you continue to lodge here, with me. Evidential of what could only be either an intense and slavish hero-worship, or --"

"Holmes." Watson has colored. "Your experiment is over. It is more than obvious that the _Turnera diffusa_ plant is useful for nothing apart from sheer derangement. I can only pray that you will remember none of this tomorrow -- Do you know, I imagine you wouldn't even care. Get _off _me," and this time he shoves him, damn his Caribbean shrub.

Holmes makes no effort not to be shoved, and in fact topples over, but not before he curls his fingers in Watson's waistcoat, in the pockets. Watson does not have the time to comprehend this odd action before Holmes falls back onto their apartment floor and Watson goes tumbling after, landing flat on his flatmate. Normally Holmes would complain. Another boon courtesy their generous _Turnera diffusa_, Watson supposes.

He doesn't suppose for long. He is flat on top of Holmes, with a barrier between them consisting merely of their clothing and a great deal of awkwardness. Watson is dressed as Watson tends to dress, having just come in from the cold a scarce quarter-hour ago, and then immediately sat down next to Holmes to see if he required any sort of medical attention. He now regrets that decision. Why does he worry? He worried, and now for his trouble his cravat is -- somewhere, and he is in his waistcoat and shirt and trousers. Holmes is in the same, well, not that he usually troubles himself with a waistcoat, and, err:

Holmes has started kissing him again. He arches his body up against him and kisses him again, and Watson succumbs. Watson presses his mouth against his mouth and slams his hand down over his wrist when Holmes tries to tug at another piece of Watson's clothing; Holmes is _so drugged_, Watson thinks when he kisses him. Holmes is delirious, Watson thinks when he grazes his teeth over Holmes's ear, over his neck, and Holmes will regret this tomorrow, he thinks when he pulls his head back up to look at him, feeling generally disgusting.

Holmes _is _delirious. His eyes haven't focused at all. Somehow this does not present an obstacle to him making quick work of Watson's buttons.

Watson drags him to his feet; Holmes makes a noise of startlement as Watson nearly shoves him toward the window. Toward the bed. Holmes may be delirious, Watson thinks, and he thinks he may be delirious himself, to be perfectly honest, but Holmes has no idea of the slow burn that Watson has been suffering in the two years of their acquaintance. The very genteel inferno which Watson has imagined rivals the inferno that will be his destination if he acts on it. He is acting on it now -- Watson can say now that the Lake of Fire pales in comparison. His hands are on Holmes's body. His hands are on Holmes's face. His mouth is on Holmes's mouth, in his hair. Holmes has rid him of his waistcoat; he is in the process of ridding Holmes of his shirt.

This is how Watson succumbs. They are on the bed now, mostly. He succumbs with his mouth on Holmes's neck and Holmes making a lot of ridiculous noises until he clamps his hand over his mouth, too, because good _Lord _Mrs. Hudson. He succumbs with confused urgency, having dreamt of something a hundred thousand times and never once done it.

He would like to say that this first time, on the bed, with the only individual, man or woman, John Watson has ever truly -- that is, with the only man with whom he's ever considered sleeping, he carries himself off like a gentleman. He does not. They're both naked and he kisses his friend, doesn't say anything, just kisses him, what is there to say -- doesn't think of after, doesn't think of next, just kisses him everywhere he can think to kiss him and spits in his hand.

Here he has second thoughts: but Holmes looks up at him with eyes that look like they're staring through him and the ceiling and the stars. He brushes some of Watson's hair from his face.

Watson kisses him again and pulls Holmes's hips up, and that's how he has him the first time, right there on their bed. Holmes sucks in a breath and Watson puts his mouth to his again, and he responds; he's so tight it dizzies him and fans the fire he has in his gut, in his hips, and he says inadvertently, "Oh, God, Holmes" as he takes him; Holmes responds by digging what feel like trenches in his back with his fingernails. They stay like that for a while, because even burning like this Watson knows a thing or two about what a man can and cannot do to another man their first round of doing it. But when Holmes tilts his hips up against him Watson moves without restraint, knowing it'll make him cry out -- and he does -- and knowing he'll have to muffle him -- and he does.

It is the worst thing John Watson has ever done. He rocks together with his friend on the bed, dizzy and flushed, past thought or second thought. He is lost in everything they're doing. He is too lost in everything they're doing to feel badly, though he cups Holmes's face and kisses him several times instead of quieting him again. There are words, foolish words, inside of him that are bursting to get out, and he doesn't know how he keeps them back. So many times he's dreamt guiltily of seducing his friend with words and each gentlemanly step, and they're left rutting on a bed like dogs, like, like some sort of, God help him, _whore _he's bought, like -- he doesn't care. He drives into him hard and hard again until he finds his release in the hollow of Holmes's shoulder where his mouth is pressed.

"I'm sorry," he says when they've been still for a while.

Holmes is not listening. Lest Watson protest that Holmes is never, in fact, listening, the fact this time is that Holmes has, in fact, fallen asleep -- which Watson finds more than flabbergasting under the circumstances, but which is nonetheless true. Watson disengages himself and cleans off, even goes to the trouble of putting Holmes's dressing-robe on him: which is very difficult to do on a sleeping man, he'll have him know.

In the morning Holmes doesn't want to wake up till eleven, and even then he grouses. "Watson," he says, "what the Devil did I drink last night?"

"Caribbean shrub," says Watson, not looking over his newspaper.

"I must say I feel rather unusually sick." Holmes presses a hand to his abdomen.

Watson crumples the edges of the newspaper a little. "You then went on to drink a half-bottle of whisky. I presume that means it achieves its desired effect."

"Oh, did I?" Holmes brightens. "Never mind, then, everything's quite in order."

Watson swears to God that he will never do this, or anything like this, ever again. At this point, though, he doesn't imagine he should have any trouble keeping it. He is not particularly blessed with powers of prediction (ones that be, or otherwise).


	2. Chapter 2: The Sure Bet

**A/N:** Second verse, same as the first.

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**II. The Sure Bet**

"By my calculations," says Holmes four months from then, "if we each skip a meal on alternating days, we should be able to make rent his month."

Watson blinks over his teacup. "What?"

"Say, we can halve our meals. You don't really like jam, do you?"

They are sitting at breakfast together, Watson with his tea and Holmes with his pipe, as the morning sun shines through the curtains and the day finds them both in unusually high spirits. It's been some time since Watson's mistake, and he's ceased dwelling on it with every movement Holmes makes, though he still sleeps poorly. Holmes on the other hand is as energetic as he ever is, as they have just concluded a case -- a peculiar one concerning a horse named Silver Blaze -- and have not yet sailed into the doldrums that are inevitable between cases, unless the clients come quickly and close together. Watson is seated straight-backed in his chair. Holmes has tipped his chair back and is likely to fall if so much as tapped on the shoulder, but Watson has given up on prevailing upon him to utilize chairs like a civilized human being. There are scones set out on the table, and jam, which, yes, Watson does not particularly like. But that is beside the point.

"I didn't know we were so behind on rent." Watson didn't. He had some idea that they were low on money of late, but it hadn't occurred to him that low could mean parched dry. "Surely your payment from Colonel Ross...?"

Holmes tips his chair back further. "Our payment from Colonel Ross," he observes, "is to go to the previous month's rent, which is late." He lights his pipe. "Doesn't anybody need a doctor any more? I tell you, Watson, our modern age is far too healthful. O, for a muse of fire. And lower standards of sanitation."

"Holmes," says Watson, perturbed. "What on earth are we going to do about this?"

There is the sound of a match striking and the faint _whoosh _of a flame as Holmes lights his pipe.

He says, "You're going to place wagers on boxing matches." Holmes takes a long, contemplative drag off his pipe as grey-white smoke spirals neatly out of it. "Clearly."

"That's funny, I don't remember stating my intention to do any such thing. Thus I have no idea how you derived such a conclusion. I wonder if any hospitals require any more on-call staff," remarks Watson, lifting his teacup again. "It's ugly work, but it is work."

"Hear me out. The practice of betting is normally a terrible endeavor, best left to men who have more skill at wishing than they do at thinking. However! The practice of winning your bets is contigent either upon chance or upon knowing something that the crowd doesn't know, thus enabling you to collect their money. Now, this is normally accomplished through cheating, of course," Holmes gestures with his pipe, "but failing that -- not that I've ruled it out --"

"Holmes."

"-- failing that, it can be accomplished through achieving victory under positively unlikely odds."

Holmes finishes off, takes another drag and is silent. Watson takes this to mean he is pleased with himself.

"You don't always win," says Watson.

Holmes blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, you don't always win. This plan of yours would be _contingent _upon you _winning_. And you don't. You're not even as tall as I am," Holmes gives him a look, Watson raises his eyebrows, "and I'd make a dreadful boxer. You're clever, but boxing is not a clever man's game." Watson picks up the newspaper and unfolds it in front of him; it's become his favorite shield against uncomfortable situations, the _Times_, sturdier than a Germanic targe. "And in the case that you do lose, we will lose the _rest _of our partial rent payment and Mrs. Hudson will throw us out on the street for being degenerates. And I can't say I'd blame her! I'm not a _gambler_, Holmes!" This is actually a lie. Watson has actually gotten in the habit of lying a fair bit, though he's not entirely certain how it came to be that way. "Haunt Lestrade for a new case and I'll pick up some sort of work. We'll miss our meals if we must."

"I never had any _impetus _to win before. Now that our hearth, our home, and the happiness of my very dear friend are riding on it," Holmes pokes the air with his pipe at the word 'very,' "I'm certain that losing will no longer hold such an allure."

"What?"

Holmes blows a smoke ring in Watson's face, which Watson has told him not to do approximately _thirteen times_ before. "I said I'll win."

"I don't believe you." Watson's tea is getting cold; later, he decides, he will contemplate why this always seems to happen when he breakfasts with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'll bet you that I'll win."

"_Holmes_."

"I will."

"Holmes, that is entirely contrary to the point."

"I will wager you," Holmes says, exacting, "precisely one deed of your choosing if I lose, and precisely one deed of my choosing if I win."

Watson is no fool, so he has assured Holmes many times, so he's not fool enough to fall for that sort of devil's bargain. Even so, it heats up his face a little to consider the possibilities and he props up the _Times _a little higher. Trusty old _Times_. "That's an awful wager," he says, and drinks his tea. "I'm not nearly as inventive as you."

"Oh, but I can assist you. Allow me to demonstrate," he holds up a hand against Watson's objections, "Suppose you win our wager and I lose my brawl. You could then, obviously, demand of me anything you like, so long as it is one singular deed. There's no _time _limit on this, Watson. For example, your demand could be 'No more bees in the house.' Ever. And I'd have to adhere to it -- I would adhere to it. No eyebrows, Watson, I mean it. 'Violin playing ceases at midnight, no matter what current cases demand.' That's a generous offer, Watson! 'Hair must be kept at an even length all round.' 'Thorough moratorium against Gladstone as an experimental subject.'"

"You are not going to adhere to a single one of those."

"-- 'Must ask you before borrowing any of your items of clothing.' 'Must explain to you each clue I see as I find it and where it fits into my larger picture of things before embarking' --"

"Holmes."

"'Surrender to the same treatment that I received this past January 5th, at eleven o'-clock at night, under the influence of the_ Turnera diffusa_ toxin.'"

Watson chokes and spits his tea all over the _Times_.

"Or I could assent never to bring dead --"

"_Holmes_. Holmes, dear God, I didn't know you had any _recollection _of that, I -- Holmes, you have no idea how unbelievably sorry I am." Watson is reeling. He is not a man who normally speaks quickly, except when agitated or angry, and he, well, he's certainly _agitated_. "I have no excuse for my conduct. There is no excuse possible for my conduct. I -- I'm sorry, I don't know what I can even -- I'm sorry. I don't know what I could -- Holmes, I can't, I don't know what I could --"

"-- persons into the house. But that might prove," Holmes notices his pipe has gone out, and he frowns and re-lights it, "very inconvenient to the both of us in our casework, I'm afraid. Can you think of an alternate place in which to store corpses? A long table would be preferable. For post-mortem work. I remember when you did it on the parlour table, you complained."

"_Holmes_!"

Holmes takes his pipe out of his mouth, bats down the damp edition of the _Times_, leans across their parlour table and kisses him.

Today Holmes tastes like tobacco, which helps Watson break away from him faster this time, though the kiss has traveled through his mouth to his stomach like a red hot molten stream. His teacup is still in his hand, so he puts that down. His copy of the paper is in ruins, though he doesn't really care. He stares at Holmes -- who is staring back at him, in all his disheveled, nine-o-clock-in-the-morning glory -- and puts his hands out like this will stop him from kissing him again. Like this stopped him the first time. This time there is no Caribbean shrub affecting Holmes's judgment, and he is _still _doing this. This is a mystery beyond the faculties of Dr. John Watson.

"So if I win," Holmes raises both of his hands and puts them over Watson's, and laces their fingers together, "I can demand anything from you, such as a cessation of all commentary on the timing of my musical interludes," he pulls them closer to him and kisses him again, "and if I lose," and again, "you have the same rights of me. Don't you care for my proposal? It's a sure bet to benefit one of us. Both of us, if I have my way. And I intend to."

Watson opens his mouth and tries to say something that will bring this whole disaster to a halt. What comes out is, "It's nine in the morning. Holmes, this is a _decent _hour."

"You're a decent man," says Holmes, and kisses him and opens his waistcoat buttons all at once in the next moment, and Watson goes under.

The morning sun is bright through the window. Mrs. Hudson is moving around downstairs. Altogether there is nothing of the furtive in the atmosphere that might be appropriate to the fact that what he and Holmes are doing is wrong.

Watson pulls away from him and gets to his feet. For a moment it looks like he's resisting, about to go and put on his hat and declare he is about to go downstairs until Holmes comes to his senses: that is the little fantasy he's having, anyway. But Holmes gets up after him and steps around the table and kisses Watson again, and instead of doing any of that he wraps his arms around Sherlock Holmes and kisses him back. This is terrible. This is more than terrible. This is disastrous. This is -- warm, and responsive, and this time Holmes pulls his waistcoat off his shoulders with no resistance from him.

"No," says Watson. Holmes starts on his shirt, industriously.

"No," says Watson again. Holmes tugs at his belt, and then tugs his belt loose entirely. The buckle hits the floor with a heavy clunk.

"Holmes," says Watson. "You can't do this. _I _can't do this. In good conscience I can't do this."

"Then go to church this Sunday," says Holmes, and undoes Watson's trousers, and kisses him again.

Holmes has about as much respect for the Archbishop of Canterbury as he does for Allan Kardec's Ouija tables. Watson is about to say something to this effect, except that Watson has broken the buttons on Holmes's shirt in his endeavors to separate the shirt from its wearer. Then he tosses the shirt aside in a movement that appears to amuse Holmes -- he's making that face again, Watson can just see it -- and Watson kisses him to shut him up. It's effective.

Holmes, Watson thinks in a blur, is handsome. He goes to watch him box for precisely this reason, that and that unshakeable devil, concern for his blasted well-being, but that was one thing that _Turnera diffusa_-addled Holmes was correct about -- well, really he was correct about a number of -- never mind. He's handsome (and that word is dishonestly mild for it). Watson places his hand flat on the skin of Holmes's chest, just intending to do that, but he runs it over his skin and Holmes arches his back. He kisses him; he kisses him on the lips, and then in the hollow of his neck. Thank God Holmes wears less clothing than he does. Thank God for how Holmes's boots never fit him quite, and so come off with ease when they both stagger to the floor. Thank God for how Holmes drags his fingernails across Watson's back when he presses his mouth to his collarbone or his chest or his ear. Thank God for so many things -- Thank God for Sherlock Holmes.

He's on top of Holmes again, and he's a bit embarrassed of it; embarrassed of how his love and admiration for him has so often run to the carnal, and the carnal of this nature, like he ought to be more generous in some way. Watson kisses him to make up for it, somehow, and Holmes laughs into his mouth -- does he read his damned thoughts, or does he just near-constantly amuse himself? -- never mind which, not all of Holmes's clothes are off. This is a problem that requires immediate attention.

Holmes squirms under his touch, with no pretenses to stoicism. Watson's hand is in his hair (how did that happen?) and his other arm wrapped around him. Holmes bucks his hips up into his, which he takes as an invitation -- frankly he feels about as hard as he's capable of being, so -- except: he remembers their first night together, abruptly, and feels a singe of guilt. And of awkwardness, of all the things that remain to be done that he really has no idea what to do. He pulls away from Holmes a little, though he laces their fingers together, and opens his mouth to say something.

"Really, now," says Holmes, a little breathless, "do you _really _think this is the first time I've done this?"

-- leaving John Watson with _that _deeply disturbing thought as he bends down to kiss him again, reeling a little.

He doesn't come up for breath for several more moments, not that he has anything to prove. But once he does Holmes speculates further, "Had. Had done this. That is. Considering our previous --"

"Be quiet," Watson, well, he wouldn't say he snaps, but, err, and spits into his hand again. This time more thoroughly. His mouth is bothersomely dry.

But this time he takes a cushion from one of the chairs they've just abandoned and pushes it under his friend's hips before he climbs back over him again and kisses him. That is the one thing he never sickens of. There's less urgency than there was, though he feels the urgency of the heat in his body and how desperately hard he is anytime he touches Holmes. Or looks at him, or hears him speak.

He wants to say something again. But he hasn't taken leave of all his senses. Instead he smooths Holmes's hair (Holmes has his eyes closed) and kisses him again and pushes into him again, carefully this time, as if he might say no -- he doesn't, in fact, he moves his hips down to meet him, and Watson thinks that when he imagined this there had never been so much heat. There is so much heat between them, not uncomfortable but searing; it intensifies when he moves and Holmes tries to say something, and he moves sharply and Holmes doesn't manage.

He feels sick with the heat, so sick as to take him hard and not feel a taste of satisfaction until he cries out: but he doesn't cover his mouth this time, he just kisses him. He just kisses him hungrily, and kisses him hard, and the floorboards creak and Mrs. Hudson's kettle goes off somewhere, and their mouths are together this time when Watson finishes and digs his shaking fingernails into the oak flooring.

It is nearly inevitable: "I _will _win," says Holmes promptly.

Watson has absolutely nothing to say to that. So that is precisely what he says. He wraps his arm around Holmes and brushes his hair back again, and kisses him a little absurdly on the forehead.

"I am taking this," Holmes continues, taking advantage of Watson's fatal error in kissing him on the _forehead_, "to mean that you accept my wager. Which is excellent and I think will be better all around for the both of us, really. Let's review this arrangement: I prevail, you perform a deed of my choosing, I'm defeated and I perform a deed of yours. Are you well familiar with the terms? I'd hardly like to spring an agreement on a man unawares, and I would like your assent to this to be beyond question."

"Holmes," he says, low -- feeling wrung-out like a dishcloth, but also covered in his own sweat and Holmes's and very still. "You know that we can never do this again."

Holmes is just as still under him, but warm and just as handsome to look at. Watson can hardly bear to lever himself off him to set about making himself decent. "Is that an assent?" says Holmes.

"We can't," says Watson. "I won't. I don't have to explain this to you."

"I am taking this as tacit assent unless you indicate otherwise. Consider this a binding agreement."

"Holmes."

"Kiss me before my match, for luck."

Watson does not. He comes uneasily to the match to hover at the ring and imagine in his head their ruin and destitution as Holmes's terrible idea comes to terrible fruition. Mrs. Hudson's horrified, disappointed face looms in his head. His patients' swift flight to other doctors is not long after. However, the guilty thought flits in and out of his head of what he might ask Holmes to do in that instance (not that he would) -- or, in the happy if unlikely case of victory on Holmes's part, what Holmes might demand of him. Watson chides himself for thinking this way and decides to cease. Somehow this will not seem to work.

Holmes wins. He demands that Watson, in his words, "completely abstain from using my name in conversation for the span of one month, including to third parties."

Watson should not be surprised.

They are never doing this again.


End file.
